


It's That Time!

by Zoya1416



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter's 40th Birthday, Humor, Partially RPF, Quodpot, RPF-relationship inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: Harry heard the owl tap on his window before dawn, and groaned. It was his turn now. He should never have sent Hermione that joke birthday card to begin with.
Relationships: Daniel Radcliffe/Erin Darke, Harry Potter/Erin Darke, Ron Weasley/Georgia Groome, Rupert Grint/Georgia Groome
Kudos: 5





	It's That Time!

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter is currently dating Erin Darke, a professional quodpot player, whose previous boyfriend was Daniel Radcliffe. Ron has just had a baby with Georgia Groome, whom he met after her breakup with Rupert Grint, at a Chudley Cannons game. (In other words, canon characters mashup with the actors' real life relationships.)

Harry heard the owl tap on the window before dawn and groaned. He wouldn't get up, he wouldn't, he knew just how awful the day was going to be, but - he couldn't say he hadn't deserved it. Hermione, September 19th, 1979; Ron, March 1st, 1980; Draco, June 5th, 1980, and even Neville, just yesterday, July 30th. They'd crossed the terrible, terrible divide between youth and middle age. Even though they might live much longer than Muggles, by the time a 40th birthday passed, even wizards and witches weren't considered young anymore. He was twenty - three years older than he'd been at the Battle of Hogwarts. Children born the day of the battle were now six years out of Hogwarts, and had children of their own. The Second Wizarding War ranked with one of the goblin rebellions, or maybe the founding of Hogwarts, to eleven year olds. He'd see the first years September 1st, as a part-time assistant professor. He rotated through Muggles Studies, Quidditch, and Defense, never needing any higher goal. McGonagall had urged him to take full time professor of Defense, but he'd smiled and refused her.

But a different kind of battle loomed today. He had only himself to blame. One card. That's all he'd given Hermione, one little card. It had an orange cat with a crooked tale, which instantly reminded him of Crookshanks, wearing a party hat and sitting gloomily in front of an enormous cake with gigantic letters "Well, it's your 40th birthday, the one you knew would eventually come, the one you've been dreading, the big 4-0." Inside the card continued, "It's going to succckkk!" It wasn't even that tacky or scandalous! He'd seen some cards he wanted to obliviate himself over, describing supposed physical changes in women. Hermione was not grey-haired, nor did she have any significant drooping he could see. Not that he even looked. What she had was a fashion style all her own, slinky and sexy when they gathered at galas, sloppy with a loose white vest, shorts, and cap at the beach. Also in a very tiny bikini at a beach, which had made him blink. The Prophet used to avoid racy photos, but now they appeared weekly. He was sad they'd run a series on her, and asked her what he could do to help. She told him to back off, she'd fight her own battles, and this didn't even rate one.

He shuddered and ignored the owl. Hermione hadn't appreciated the card, and owled him notes about sexism, how it devalued women over 40, and he sent back owls about the cards he'd seen for men, which were even more humiliating, and they'd met up for tea and even more arguments, and, (he couldn't say who was the first) someone said, "you know who else is turning 40? Ron, in March."

Ron's 40th was greeted not only by rude cards, but some fake medicine bottles filled with candy pastilles and labelled for rheumatism, backache, wrinkles, and the like. Hermione had been very cheeky and added a bottle labelled "Most Potente Potion for Wand Performance Problems."They'd gotten together for drinks at the Leaky, for old times' sake - it was still Ron's favorite. It was after the 2nd or 3rd Firewhiskey that Hermione said, "You know who's coming up in June?" Ron had sneered and said with a slur, "You-know-who went _down_ in May, 'Mione, and he isn't coming back up." Hermione's cheeks had burned red, and she'd amended, "I _mean_ , I know who has a birthday in June."

Harry and Ron had stared at her, not comprehending, and she rolled her eyes. "Draco. His 40th birthday is June 5th."

"Well, guess you would know, 'Mione, since you're dating him."

"I am _not_ dating Draco, Ron, as I've told you before. He's a friend. We enjoy spending time together."

"That's what I said!"

She went on, ignoring him, "He taught me how to skateboard. We tag each other on Instagram. But I'm self-partnered."

"I don't understand most of what you said, 'Mione," Ron said, "but even if you were dating him - you said his birthday is in June?"

Ron hadn't hesitated to up the game, with the resources of the Wizarding Wheezes shop, and Draco had received not only multiple cards, but birthday Howlers, the old - age potions, a cane, a coupon for a walking frame, and another for an Erumpent-horn based remedy for male potency problems. He'd accepted all with apparent grace, impeccable manners, and thank-you cards with the Malfoy crest on finest parchment the very next day. He'd fittingly sent the owls around at 4 AM. Harry still saw him daily, of course, at the Muggleborn student orientation center they'd created. Draco had been the one to approach Harry about it, the year after the battle. They'd both been hiding from the world, Draco at Malfoy Manor and Harry at Grimmauld Place. Draco had sent him owls requesting a meeting, and after Harry ignored the first five, Draco began the next with an apology as well as an invitation to tea to talk about aiding Muggleborns. After months of cautious coffees, Harry accepted Draco's sincere overtures, and now the Lily Evans Center, in Muggle London just outside Diagon Alley, had celebrated its twentieth anniversary.

None of them had married. Hermione continued happily self-partnered; Draco showed up at Ministry balls with a different woman every time, but his real love was his standard white poodle, Willow. Harry and Hermione had carefully listened to his explanation that the poodle had originated in France, from the highest ranks of society, and was highly intelligent. They only mocked him in private about his habit of saying, "Who's a good doggie? You are, ess you are," giving multiple belly rubs and treats when he thought no one was looking. To Molly Weasley's shock, Ron had not married, but settled down with a long-time love and recently produced a baby. An out-of-wedlock Weasley was unheard of, and Molly had shrieked for weeks before Ron cut the floo connection and refused her owls. She apologized and invited Ron, his girlfriend, and her new granddaughter to the next Sunday dinner at the Burrow.

Harry had considered being out of England on his birthday. He'd normally send a simple card to Neville, who was outside the gang of four, and happy as Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. Longbottom had viewed the escalating birthday gags with increased bemusement, and possibly alarm. He'd taken a sabbatical this summer, travelling to countries all over to world to source rare plants. That had been his dream for years, and Harry was almost certain that it was a coincidence that Neville had been in an unspecified location in the Orinoco basin the past two weeks.

The pecking outside his window was continuous now, and the first Howler Birthday Card had exploded.

"If you don't take care of those damn birds I'm going to kill you."

"Then I'll never get harassed about being forty. That could be good."

Erin pulled her head up from the pillow next to him and growled. "I could make sure you suffered a long time first." She began pinching him on the shoulder, and he whinged pitifully, "Don't hurt me, I'm old now." She grabbed his arm with a firmly muscled one and pulled him up. "Keep whining and you'll never get your birthday presents." 

He swiveled to a sitting position, then stood and stretched his back. All joking aside, the body began to assert itself in unexpected ways, like the occasional sore back when he hadn't even played quodpot that long. He'd met Erin when she came over from the US for the first ever Quodpot game in Britain. She'd played professionally for years in the US, and was working with investors to introduce the sport to England. Ginny Weasley had panned the sport during her commentary at the 2014 Quidditch World Cup, and Erin had challenged her. Ginny collected all the Weasley men, wives, and current girlfriends, and when one short, invited Harry. Erin brought her American team, and surprised the Weasleys with the thrill involved in getting as many points as possible before the quod exploded and eliminated a player. Harry and Erin were the last two players, and she easily caught him with the quod. The burn from the quod blowing up had been easily quenched by the potions and salves each team carried, and as soon as his face felt normal again, he asked her out. 

Long despised in Britain as "frankly ridiculous," It turned out that the key to quodpot was that the quod had a built-in countdown period of twenty-five seconds, plus or minus three. It gave a periodicity to the plays, with just enough irregularity to increase suspense. Each time the quod was put in play, a tall glowing count-down timer flared where the crowd could see it. The players, of course, had to rely on internal timing. Each pass between two players on the same team earned 1 points, increasing to 2 points after 22 seconds, and 3 after 25 seconds. The player holding the quod when it exploded had to leave the field, but if the quod was in the pot at 22 seconds or more and hadn't exploded, the same team kept possession, and no one left. A quod in play which exploded after 25 seconds cost the team 3 points. The opposing team's goals were to break up passes by batting the quod away with a bat similar to a beater's, only lighter. They also concentrated on stealing the quod as often as possible.

If the quod had not been put into the basket before it exploded, possession changed sides. According to Erin, the game had some similarity to the American Muggle game of basketball. It had four twelve minute periods, plus a fifteen minute half-time, but with timeouts and penalty shots (penalty shots! But an exploding ball shouldn't really be shoved directly into someone's face,) and various other obscure American rules, an average game could last two and a half hours. The goal was to pass as many times as possible, of course, but a coach had to decide end of play strategy. Conservative coaches tossed in the quod at 22 seconds, aggressive coaches tried to get extra three-pointers after 25. Each coach had to factor in how fresh or tired the players were. Those rules were not appreciated by Quidditch fans until they'd seen pictures of a match. The games were fast and unpredictable, even with a single ball, and they didn't end in twenty minutes or last for three days. Harry would never regret having been a seeker, but one thirty-six hour game rated poorly in his memories. The game had two halves, and the sides changed position after each half, to equalize the issues of sun glare or wind. Other modifications included giving the quod its own movement, like the snitch, although it didn't vary nearly as much.They still had to chase it to catch and pass, with the clock ticking down, and it was, as Erin demonstrated, a game with its own fascination.

Harry stepped groggily to the window, let in the four owls with their chorusing, yodeling, orchestral, and farting letters, and dodged the fifth with its intense glitter bomb. He knew from horrifying experience that it would take weeks to get it all out, even with the fastest magical cleaners. Weasley Wizarding Wheezes sold the top of the line cleaners, of course, but twenty-five galleons a pop was ridiculous. Now someone was pounding on his front door. He started to stagger down the stairs to answer it, and only stopped when Erin yelled "Wait!" and chucked his dressing gown at him. She remembered, if he did not, the time he'd opened the door starkers. Thankfully, since Grimmauld Place was still under fidelius it had been only Ron and Georgia, but he hadn't wanted to meet Ron's latest girlfriend without a stitch on. 

Today, however - surely he did not deserve a trio of singers bellowing out 'Happy Birthday.' Bellowing because they were male singers. Male singers in vests and tiny shorts, to which, despite multiple rumors, he was not the least bit attracted. Even after years of Quidditch, he still wasn't happy to see nearly naked dancing men, and - god, did have to flex their arses in time with the song? And then start stripping off first the shorts and then - oh no! not their thongs! He grimaced with each new layer, but although the thongs grew gaudier and tinier, they didn't quite get totally naked. He heard a loud wolf whistle behind him and realized that Erin had put on her gown as well, sneaking up behind him. She loomed over him (he adored her two inch height advantage) and grinned wickedly, and how exactly had someone gotten through the fidelius to pound on the door anyway? He grabbed her and yanked her in front of him. At least someone could enjoy the show. As he stormed down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, he heard the song change. He thought it was 'Stupid Love,' but he honestly preferred Beyonce to Lady Gaga.

Kreacher had left his favorite tea at just the right temperature, but - this was getting ridiculous - set out a breakfast spread large enough for twenty people. He was forty, dammit! He couldn't eat like the ravenous teen he'd once been. There was the heartburn, and what he completely denied was a tiny bulge at his belly. But Merlin, it looked and smelled fantastic! Bacon, four kinds of eggs, ham, sausage, waffles dripping with butter and syrup, blueberry muffins, cinnamon coffee cake, an enormous bowl of dazzling fruit already cut into juicy cubes, perfect globes, and hexahedrons. 

He saw tiny quiches and croissants and breakfast burritos with chili. Ron had once challenged him to a heat contest, and he'd won with the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion and its 2,200,000 Scoville units. But he'd been twenty-five then, and oh, this was ludicrous. Crepes with five kinds of fillings including chocolate. Pancakes with, from Erin's secret stash, boysenberry syrup as well as the maple and strawberry. The powdered sugar on the beignets recalled their trip to New Orleans. Idlis, spicy potatoes and 3 kinds of chutney. Cold cucumber soup and radish strip kimchi, steamed buns with, he could smell, barbecue pork, and rice noodle rolls. At least those would be vegetarian. He was not up to considering prawns yet.

He poured a cup of tea and picked up a muffin, and then heard the floo whoosh. In seconds the kitchen was crowded with every Weasley including Ron's tiny girl, all grinning and whooping. The packages, bows, and ribbons would have filled the entire living room if they hadn't been shrunk. Harry knew that many of them would be chosen specifically for the Lily Evans Center, and it made his eyes prickle.

"Many happy returns." "Happy Birthday!" "Feliz Cumpleanos.""Bon Anniversaire!" That was Draco, and yes, he'd brought Willow, and then Luna's bright head popped in, with her yellow spectacles perched on it. Suddenly it was too much, and then Erin was beside him.

"Need to go upstairs and change, love?"

"Yes." It was all he could choke out, and he almost ran out of the room, puzzled looks following him. Erin came into the bedroom and wrapped him in a tight hug. She knew, as so many of the others did not, of the birthdays he'd received nothing, or an empty sweet wrapper, or five pence once. Even after Hogwarts and many birthdays and Christmases celebrated at the Burrow, and years when he'd taken portkeys to ten different cities to celebrate with friends, the cupboard still clung like a burr to a tiny spot of his heart.

"It's the Wrackspurts," she said.

"Don't you start. Luna's bad enough, and wrackspurts just confuse you."

"You don't want me to tell you where those feeling come from or what they are."

"You don't know what I'm feeling! No one does." Harry was shaking. Suddenly he was four instead of forty, making friends with the spiders in the cupboard.

"No one does," she agreed. "No one can reach inside your mind and your heart, love. All we can do is tell you we love you now." She squeezed him with those long, muscled arms, and stroked his back. He sighed and relaxed against her. 

"Do you think we could spend the rest of the day in bed?"

Erin punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Not unless you want so many Wizarding Wheezes products around your house that we'd never find them all by Christmas."

Harry shuddered. He loved George, truly, but Harry never needed exploding toothpaste or glowing lube again. It wasn't just the strawberry color or flavor, it was that it lasted for days.

"Right, but I'm not dressing." He pulled on a pair of soft red and gold striped track bottoms, and turned to see Erin holding out a red tee shirt that proclaimed "Hung Like a Hippogriff." He rolled his eyes. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. Let them wonder."

"They'll laugh. They'll take pictures."

"And no one will sell them to the Prophet. They're your friends, Harry Potter, and you deserve this. Besides, if you do, I'll..." she whispered in his ear, and he snickered.

"Okay, but not three times today - "

"Wait til you see what George has been working on. It'll lift your spirits in a hurry."

"The day I trust George Weasley for anything - "

"Is today, because I asked him nicely. And threatened him. And promised him top box seats for every game for a year."

"George doesn't even like quodpot! Sorry."

"No problem. He will like giving them away for raffles and prizes, though."

Harry pulled her down for a long snog, and then pulled away. "Okay. I can do this."

He marched back into the kitchen, where he was swallowed in hugs. Kreacher had migrated the food to the dining room, and Harry slid into the seat at the head. Erin was beside him, and gave him one more kiss, and a finger stroked the back of his neck and made him shiver.

Someone, possibly Ginny, handed him a modest plate with a skewer of one strawberry, a ball of watermelon, and a grape, one taco, two slices of bacon, a quarter cup of kimchi, a blueberry muffin, and a single chocolate filled crepe. It was adequate, thoughtfully allied with his moderate considerations, at least for a first serving. 

The hell with it. He'd outlived, outlasted, and survived enough to celebrate this day. He gave in and heaped on three more pieces of bacon, more fruit skewers, several pancakes, a beignet, a steamed bun with barbecued pork, and sausages. There were plenty of stomach potions, and well - he did deserve this.

"Thank you, everyone."

He picked up the cup of tea Kreacher set beside him, still fragrant with the two sugars and cream he liked, and toasted his friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 40th birthday, Harry Potter! I wish you all the best, whatever that is for you. Many happy returns.
> 
> (Two hundred words, I said. Or three hundred. I'm not up for more than drabbles, and then oh damn, I want to mix up the characters and the actors, and give everyone their real girlfriends, baby, and dog, ((although I have no evidence that Willow is a poodle)) and then let's have quadpot, (((or is is spelled quodpot? Looks several places, guesses.))) because Erin Darke is American, and what could make quodpot exciting and a real sport, now I have to look up basketball rules, and okay, I have to have breakfast foods from multiple countries...anyway, it grew.)


End file.
